He Cries for You
by Insanemistosingsmore
Summary: We know Enjolras's philosophy. "Ma mere est la Republique." What comes of a chance  encounter with a Russian rebel-whose passion for the cause may even surpass Enjolras's! If you can name the song and artist, you get cookies. More b4 chptr 2 rtd 4 imagry
1. Chapter 1

He Cries for You.

** This is my first attempt at something longer than a drabble…it still won't be that long, but hopefully better than my first attempt at nailing down Enjolras. I already posted this on my profile, but for those of you who cannot be bothered to go look, I'm going to explain the name of my OC. Kolya is the diminutive of the Russian form of Nicolas, which means 'Victory of the People,' as I'm sure many of you already know. Kuzma, a form of Cosma, means 'order and structure.' And finally, the surname; Morolzov. In the tradition of Russian surnames, a basic translation is Son/daughter of _. It could be a name, but in a case like Morolzov, it is a force of nature common in Koyla's homeland; Frost. Morolzov literally means Son of Frost, or of the Frost.**

**Disclaimer: Cookies if you can name the song or its artist. That being said, you know I don't own it. Victor Hugo owns Les Miserables, sadly, and is really quite dead.**

*1829, Siberia*

He awoke with a start, and sat up straight, listening to the night. He heard horses heading towards the house. No one comes to a home in the outskirts of a Siberian village in the middle of the night unless they had some purpose…and Kolya knew what that purpose was. He, Kolya of the People, was to be arrested at dawn. He didn't know who or what gave him away, but at the moment, he didn't care. He quickly but gently shook his mother awake. "You need to hide, Мать. What we've feared is happening." A few more gentle urgings was all it took for his mother to conceal herself, and rather well. Now all he had to do was wait.

The wait wasn't long. Soon enough a voice called out in the night. "Will Kolya Kuzma Morolzov please step out where we can see him?" The constable's voice, like a wolf call in a dark night, was just about as unwelcome as the wolves. But Kolya knew that there was no escape at this point. "For you, Mother Russia…I will give me all," he muttered, a desperate little prayer that She would not ask more than he could give. He stepped out of his home, hands up, as if to 'come quietly.' However, as the first of the policemen stepped up to cuff him, he brought his knee up to connect with the man's stomach. He managed to fight the lot of them off for all of one minute. Then there was an explosion of agony near the base of his skull, and he knew no more.

Just as her son was losing consciousness, Anya knew she couldn't bear the suspense, the not knowing. She just had to find out if her little Kolya would be ok. She crept to the window, careful to avoid the squeaky floorboards, and peered out. That's when she saw a sight that would haunt her forever. Her little Kolya…her victory of the people…face down, in the snow. Bleeding from a head wound. She stared as the police began to drag him away, but no tears would come. Living in a frozen wasteland, one may grieve as one must….but one can never cry. The liquid froze too quickly. But she would never forget her little Kolya….or the sight of red blood frozen on the soft snow.


	2. Chapter 2

** Ok, thanks for the grand total of three reviews. Hopefully, with the main story posted, I'll pick up a few more. Or maybe I'm just impatient….God, I'm too used to the Cats fandom. Instant reviews, all saying the same thing. Oh well. As with Civil Misery, lyrics are in italics, and thoughts are bold italics.**

**Disclaimer: No cookies, but maybe this will help. The song is by Renaissance, the book by Hugo. Nothing is mine, except for Kolya and Anya.**

*Two and a half years later…December of 1830, Paris, France*

The day was like any other. The poor were suffering dearly from the winter's chill, and the rich were still raking in the money. Yes, it angered Enjolras, but he understood La Belle France. Her people would not rise while the blood is frozen in their veins. He hunched over, working on the speech he was to deliver the next day.

_Pays the price, works the seasons through_

_ Frozen days, he thinks of you._

_ Cold as ice, but he burns for you!_

_ Mother Russia can't you hear him, too?_

The voice, infinitely sorrowful, rose and fell with the verse. "Pardonnez-moi, Madame…who is it you sing of?" Ordinarily, Enjolras had little to no interest in music, but he couldn't help the sheer sympathy that one is compelled to feel at the song, sung from a well of grief and personal experience.

The woman, older and hunched from a lifetime of hard labor, answered slowly. "Mon petit- a revolutionary like you, good Monsieur." Her French was heavily accented and she looked as if it were an effort for her not to slip into her native Russian. As Enjolras gave her a questioning look, she continued her song.

_Mother's son, freedom's overdue._

_ Lonely man, he thinks of you._

_ He isn't done, he only lives for you!_

_ Mother Russia, can you hear him too?_

For half a second, Enjolras could have sworn she was glaring at the paper on his table.

_Punished for his written thoughts, starving for his fame!_

_ Working blindly building blocks, number for a name…_

_ His blood runs frozen to the snow!_

The song broke off with a harsh sob. Enjolras, having swallowed despite a dry mouth, glanced uneasily out the window, where snow was indeed falling. Soon enough, he was able to force himself back to his work.

"What have you done for your precious Republic, Monsieur? What have you given or suffered through? My Kolya…he was a political prisoner. When they took him away from me, he didn't go without a fight. And that was my last image of him….bleeding into the first snow of the season. Prisons in Siberia…they aren't like your prisons. He died within a month…and he was lucky. Most die within the first week."

Enjolras looked up at the last, his temper frayed and his pride bruised. "I'm sorry for your loss, Madame, but I fail to see what it has to do with me." His voice was frosty, but the words only half-true. While he was sorry, he was also comparing himself to this 'Kolya.' There was a man who'd given up his freedom, his sanity in all likelihood, and ultimately his life for his Motherland…and what _had_ Enjolras done for the Republic as of yet? Given a few speeches and given up the bourgeois comforts.

_Red blood, white snow_

_ He knows frozen rivers won't flow!_

_ So cold, so true…Mother Russia, he cries for you._

She trailed off and turned to her drink in silence. **_Not a single tear for his mother…but his very life's blood for his Motherland._**

Little did she know, but the same thought was going through Enjolras' mind. He never forgot about that day, and if ever his faith in La République would waver, he thought of Kolya. **_I owe it to them to carry on. _**


	3. Epilogue

**Thanks to reviews and my deepest apologies for the wait for this little epilogue. Reviews are welcome, but I'll be happy if you just read, too. However…how will I know unless you review?**

**Disclaimer: I've given out one cookie. Pitiful. Still, the song is by Renaissance, and Les Mis, as you all know, is brought to you by Victor Hugo.**

*On the barricades, June 6, 1832.*

Enjolras shuddered with an icy wind that blew…he was surprised the others couldn't feel it. They'd just lost yet another man, but he had to ignore the fact…had to keep fighting. The roar of gunfire was deafening, but all the same, he heard a voice, haunting him. _What have I done for La Republique?_

No…He knew that if he kept thinking like that, he'd lose heart, and if he did, then the Tomorrow he'd fervently dreamed of for all these years would never come. His left arm burned with sudden pain, but he brushed it off…it wasn't a direct hit, he could keep fighting. When he had the time he'd use his own shirt. The available bandages were to be used for more serious wounds, even he knew that. As the blood stained the white shirt, he couldn't help but hear that voice again. _Red blood, white snow. He knows frozen rivers won't flow. So cold, so true…Mother Russia, he cries for you!_ Russia may not have heard Kolya's cry, but Enjolras knew that la belle France would hear his. She just had to.

Another gunshot rang close to him, this time missing completely. He looked around on instinct. To his left…a table. No good. To the right…Grantaire. Front, back…nothing useful. It looked like both the believer and cynic were to die in this room. _Ma belle France, as I lived for you, I shall die for you. In full faith and dedication…just please…let it be said of me that I tried. That I gave my all for you…whether or not you've heard my cry._


End file.
